


Your Heart in Mine

by redeyedwrath



Series: Merthur Ficlets [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Court Sorcerer Merlin, Fluff, M/M, Oblivious Arthur, Pining Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 21:13:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12219072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redeyedwrath/pseuds/redeyedwrath
Summary: "Merlin should’ve been back by now. Something must’ve gone wrong."In which, Merlin is Court Sorcerer and takes a little too long getting back from a mission





	Your Heart in Mine

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I Am Your Liege](https://archiveofourown.org/works/565878) by [relenafanel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/relenafanel/pseuds/relenafanel). 



> Right hello! Didn't really plan on finishing another Merthur fic quite this soon, but here we are :p This is fully [clotpolesonly](http://clotpolesonly.tumblr.com)'s fault because Jess is a dirty, dirty enabler... Also, inspired by the last scene of the Sterek fic "I Am Your Liege" and posted with permission ^^
> 
> Hope y'all like it!

_I look into your eyes_  
_See my life defined_  
_Look into your eyes_  
_See your heart in mine_

**\- Ariel, Anathema**

—

Leon’s voice echoes through the council chambers as he drones on about the grain reserves, yet Arthur cannot seem to get himself focused. Instead, he keeps glancing over at the empty chair next to his, twisting his ring around his finger. Percival is shooting him worried looks. Gaius is perched on the edge of his chair, his hands still neatly folded on his lap, but Arthur can see the anxiety in the way he holds himself. Arthur doesn’t feel much better.

Merlin should’ve been back by now. Something must’ve gone wrong.

Arthur had sent Merlin on an expedition to the southern borders a week ago, and there’s been no word from any of them since. It’s unusual. Arthur turns to look out the window. The sun is already setting. Merlin should’ve been back at least two days ago, almost three now. He clenches his hand into a fist, balling up the fabric of his trousers.

The council chambers feel strangely empty without Merlin. Merlin’s seat has always been the one closest to his, and Arthur can’t even remember a time when Merlin wasn’t there. Even before he told Arthur about his magic, Merlin was there at his side, working from the shadows.

Arthur shifts, raising his eyebrows when he finds Gaius’ eyes on him — even Gaius’ constant assurances that Merlin is the most powerful sorcerer alive don’t help Arthur much when Merlin is still gone. Gaius sends him a tight smile, nodding to Leon next to him.

Right. The weekly reports.

A boy storms into the room then, face flushed red from exertion and hair windswept, but all Arthur feels is a sinking sensation in his stomach. The boy heaves a few breaths and Arthur stands up, pushing his chair behind him, but just when he’s about to demand that the boy speak, he breathes, “He’s back, my lord. Merlin’s back.”

Arthur clenches his hand into a fist, his knuckles pressing into the wood of the table. Merlin’s back. He’s _alive_. _Merlin’s alive_. “Send him to my chambers immediately. I’ll join him as soon as I can.”

“Sire,” the boy says, bowing down before stepping out of the council chambers. Arthur has the inane urge to run after the boy, to check for himself if Merlin’s back, but he forces himself to sit back down. Leon still has to go through part of the weekly report and the King can’t go storming out of a meeting.

Gaius meets his eye, giving him a nod that belies how relieved he is. Arthur tilts his head in recognition and unclenches his hands under the table.

Merlin lives.

The rest of the meeting is a blur — Arthur’s heart is pounding too hard for him to focus on anything that comes out of Leon’s mouth. All he can think about is Merlin, Merlin, _Merlin_. His cloak sits heavy on his shoulders, as if it’s weighing him down. He can ask Leon for the parchments detailing the weekly report later, when he doesn’t have more pressing concerns.

“And that’s all of it, Sire,” Leon finishes, turning to him with a knowing look. Arthur has enough kingly dignity left in him to not jump up the second those words leave Leon’s mouth, but it’s a near thing.

“Right. You’re all dismissed,” Arthur says, and then he storms out of the room, not waiting until the others have left. The walk from the council chambers to his own quarters have never seemed so unbearably long before. His legs are aching from his pace, his cloak billows out behind him and almost knocks down a vase, but all Arthur can think about is how at the end of this corridor, right through those wooden doors, Merlin is waiting for him.

He stands in front of it for a few seconds, trying to calm his own breathing as he watches the torchlight flicker. He carefully pushes the doors open, just until he can see a silhouette standing in front of the fireplace, and then he slips into the chambers, closing the door behind him.

It’s undeniably, unmistakably _Merlin_.

Rain drops fall off his shoulders onto the floor, and he’s staring intently into the fire, hands clasped behind his back. There’s a filthy substance clotting his hair together and his face is smeared with grime, black smudges on his cheekbone and his temple and he looks absolutely squalid.

It’s the best thing Arthur’s ever seen.

He doesn’t even realise he’s made a noise until Merlin startles and jumps round, his eyes wide. God, he looks even dirtier like this, and Arthur is filled with both fondness and apprehension. As far as he knows, Merlin is the only one who returned from this expedition — he can’t imagine the kind of horrors Merlin must’ve faced if even he wasn’t able to stop it.

Then Merlin smiles at him, tiny and exhausted and it doesn’t reach his eyes, but Arthur’s heart starts racing and his cheeks flush. God, what is wrong with him? It’s just _Merlin_.

“Merlin,” he says, walking over to him. The closer Arthur comes, the more rancid Merlin smells — like sweat and death and unwashed skin — and he scrunches up his nose. “You’re positively filthy.”

“Well, Sire,” Merlin says, voice hoarse from exhaustion and disuse. Arthur flinches. He’s never heard Merlin sound so dispirited before. “You told me to come directly to your chambers. In between that and feeling like I’m going to pass out any second, I didn’t exactly have time to take a bath.”

Ah, well. Arthur hadn’t thought of that, too overjoyed by the thought of Merlin’s return to consider the necessary comforts. His stomach sinks and his cheeks flush. “Right. Of course.”

His ring makes a ticking sound on the wooden surface of the table, echoing in the silence between them. Merlin’s still just staring at him, hands clasped behind his back, his face black with shadow and filth. Arthur swallows — of course it isn’t his fault that Merlin is standing here, like this, but oddly enough it feels like it.

“Turn around, would you?” he asks, motioning for Merlin to turn back. Merlin immediately obliges, and Arthur is left with the sharp angles of Merlin’s cheekbones and a piercing sense of relief. Merlin looks at him from the corner of his eye, waiting, and Arthur quickly adds, “and give me a report.”

Merlin nods then and redirects his gaze to the fire, eyebrows drawing together as he thinks about what happened. “We were ambushed. There were too many of them for me to handle. I was the only survivor.”

Arthur swallows. God, Merlin is the only one who survived. It makes him feel guilty, but somewhere he’s glad that the survivor is _Merlin_. He steps closer, only half-listening to Merlin’s report, inspecting the dried blood in Merlin’s hair, how he’s shivering from the cold and the rain, his fingers an ugly, bloodless white as he clenches them.

He stops when he’s close to touching Merlin, his exhales ghosting over the nape of Merlin’s neck. Carefully, he places a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, and he hisses softly when he feels how cold the chainmail is. Arthur can’t help but smile faintly despite the circumstances — they’ve had debates about the necessity of that chainmail; Arthur had insisted on it because a sword was still a sword, even if you’re the most powerful sorcerer alive, and Merlin had acquiesced after a lot of grumbling. Seeing Merlin wearing it now, and _alive_ , despite impossible odds, makes it worth it.

He trails his fingers down the mail until they reach the hem, pulling it up Merlin’s body, forcing Merlin to squirm out of it. The sleeves of his tunic are sodden with rain drops, and Arthur shivers a bit, but he doesn’t relent.

“Arthur?” Merlin asks, softly, voice trembling with something other than cold. Arthur ignores him and continues pushing it up until Merlin’s forced to raise his arms in order to let Arthur pull it off. “Arthur, what are you doing?”

The chainmail pools on the floor, tiny rings clinking against the stone floor. Arthur will have to ask a servant to clean it before it rusts, and he’s not going to make Merlin clean his own chainmail. Not now.

When he realises Merlin is just looking at him over his shoulder, eyes deep and twinkling with something that’s not magic, Arthur flushes a bit. Arthur pushes his sleeves up his arm until they reach his elbows. He nudges Merlin in the side, smiling when Merlin indignantly yelps and jumps away from him. The wounded look in Merlin’s eyes makes it worth it.  

“Just continue giving your report,” he says, and Merlin does, albeit it a bit more hesitantly. There’s a short pause when Arthur pulls at the hem of Merlin’s drenched shirt, his fingers slipping against Merlin’s wet skin. The muscles of Merlin’s stomach contract when Arthur touches him, and Arthur’s revolted to feel how cold he is. The shirt falls on the ground with a slap.

Merlin’s voice is still echoing through his chambers when Arthur steps away, reaching for a cloth to dry Merlin. He has to search for a bit to find one — it’s not hanging over his screen like it usually would. The sound of Merlin talking makes Arthur feels at ease, and he’s not at all prepared for what he sees when he turns back to face Merlin.

The soft light of the fire and the torches paints Merlin a wonderful colour, his back made of dips and curves, muscles that Arthur’s fingers itch to touch. He’s hunched in on himself a bit, the sharp edges of his cheekbones standing out. Arthur feels breathless and invincible, having Merlin here like this, clearly exhausted, but comfortable with Arthur touching him like this, taking these liberties.

Arthur swallows, clenching his hand around the cloth before dipping a corner of the fabric into a water bowl. His heart is pounding out of his chest and he doesn’t understand why this is happening, why the sight of Merlin is affecting him so. It’s more than just relief — it’s something that makes Arthur’s stomach twist and his heart race and his cheeks flush.

Merlin is still talking, though his forearms are leaning against the mantle, presumably in an effort to warm himself up. Arthur walks towards him slowly, careful not to make too much noise. He doesn’t want to shatter this moment, whatever that entails.

Making sure the cloth is still a bit damp, he runs it over the curve of Merlin’s shoulder down to his bicep, frowning when he sees how filthy it is. He ignores the way Merlin’s voice wavers, scrubbing down Merlin’s arms and his back until they’re relatively clean, then placing his hand on Merlin’s waist, pushing on the skin to make Merlin turn around.

Merlin obliges and Arthur momentarily gets distracted by the red flush running down Merlin’s cheeks to his chest. Surely he isn’t imagining that? Cupping Merlin’s jaw in his hand, he softly scrubs over Merlin’s cheek, then his forehead, then his other cheek, manipulating Merlin to move around. Merlin’s skin is burning. His breath comes out in heavy puffs that flow between Arthur’s fingers.

Arthur is simultaneously glad and oddly disappointed when he moves on from Merlin’s face to his chest. Merlin’s breath hitches when Arthur reaches his underbelly, muscles clenching and unclenching in random patterns. Arthur reminds himself to take deep breaths, to _keep breathing_.

Leaning back after a while, he looks Merlin over, trying to see if he missed a spot. When he can’t find anything, he puts the cloth away, throwing it wherever Merlin’s chainmail and shirt are. He raises his eyebrow at Merlin’s silence, but Merlin just mumbles something about having finished his report.

Arthur will have to ask for another report later, then.

Merlin’s still just watching him, eyes wide and black with something Arthur isn’t dwelling too hard on, waiting for Arthur’s next move. Arthur doesn’t even have to contemplate it. He drops to his knees, cloak pooling around him as he tries to untie the lace in Merlin’s boots. They’re stiff from the rain, and Arthur is trying to pull them apart with his nails when there are hands on his shoulders, pulling him from where he’s crouched, and why is Merlin pulling him up, why —

“No,” Merlin says, eyes wide and frantic, his hands pawing at Arthur’s shoulders, his fingers digging into Arthur’s tunic. “You kneel for no man.”

Arthur smiles. That’s the problem. Merlin is looking at him like he’s crazy, Arthur _feels_ like he’s crazy, taking Merlin’s hands off his shoulders and squeezing them before dropping back down, still struggling with the laces of Merlin’s boots. Merlin’s trembling in front of him, trembling and filthy and gorgeous and _alive_.

“Arthur—” Merlin chokes out when Arthur pulls his boots off, throwing them somewhere behind him, uncaring for where they land. Arthur looks up at him then, trying to catch his eye, but Merlin keeps looking away from him, instead glancing at the floor. Arthur places his hands on Merlin’s thighs, squeezing them once until Merlin’s looking at him, _actually_ looking at him.

“Merlin,” he says, voice hoarse, his fingers softly digging into Merlin’s thighs. He can see Merlin swallow. “ _Merlin_. I kneel for you.”

Merlin’s knees give out from under him, knocking against the stone floor and then they’re on the same height, Merlin breathing heavily, and Arthur pulls him close and closer even though Merlin still smells like death and sweat, but it’s okay because it’s _Merlin_. He grabs the back of Merlin’s neck, their foreheads resting against each other, Merlin’s eyes closed, his eyelashes sweeping over his cheeks.

Carefully, Arthur takes Merlin’s hand from where it’s resting on the ground, balled up with his fingers digging into his palm. He uncurls it, smoothing over the crescent-shaped indents with his thumb before raising it to his mouth, his heart beating out of his chest as he whispers, “I am your liege.”

Merlin lets out a shuddering breath, his hand moving to cup Arthur’s cheek, pulling him closer and closer until Arthur’s nose runs over the edge of one cheekbone, the skin still soft. Arthur smiles when Merlin’s thumb caresses the side of his face, stroking down until it rests on his bottom lip. He presses a soft kiss against it.

“I’m glad you’re back,” he whispers, pulling Merlin closer until they’re hugging, right there on the ground, his face in Merlin’s neck, Merlin’s hands clenched in Arthur’s cloak. He feels Merlin’s shaky exhale, feels the dampness of tears on his neck. Arthur’s never felt more at home.

“Me too,” Merlin breathes out. “God, me too.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaah thank you for reading! I hope you liked it ^^ This is only my second Merthur fic so who knows, maybe it's really bad? Please let me know what you thought!!!!
> 
> [Also hi hello I have a Tumblr that's mostly Sterek, Merthur, and Ben Whishaw ^^](http://nerdderek.tumblr.com)


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